


Flight of Icarus

by elzierav



Category: RWBY
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Everyone is Badass, Fainting, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Leadership, M/M, Making Out, Missions Gone Wrong, Mutual Pining, So much flirting, Too many characters, Wings, fair game, hurt birb boy, it will get tagged, too many tags, very soft smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21987301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzierav/pseuds/elzierav
Summary: “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, lucky charm.”“Then why are you blushing, little angel?”“Little angel, seriously? These wings don’t even feel big enough for me to fly in my human form, they’re just the right size to be annoying.”“Just your luck, really. But you didn’t answer my question.”“I’m blushing because this tea is hot.” And so are you, his eyes seem to say, silently.During a mission gone terribly wrong, Qrow’s Aura breaks while he’s shapeshifting and he ends up with a pair of wings stuck on his back. Clover has to take care of him while he recovers, hijinks ensue.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Comments: 43
Kudos: 254





	1. Into the storm's eye

**Author's Note:**

> This can be seen as a continuation of my other fic, Totally Unfair, but can also be read independently. This one is more Clover POV. If you like this one, there’s a good chance you’ll like the other one, so please also give it a go! Hope you enjoy :)  
> Warnings for this chapter: this is just a huge bloated fight scene, so canon-typical violence and mentioned injuries. Also some swearing, I guess.

There is no way young people these days make any sense at all, Clover thinks, running in the snow, weapon in hand. Why do they see danger and start running head first towards it? Trained military and Huntsmen, Clover can understand - but civilians? Why are they all rushing to the site of the Amity Colosseum as the news announced some dust crystals supporting the stadium started to crumble and fall, instead of away from it? Is it despair, the hope to grab even a handful of raw dust without paying the ludicrously high prices set by the Schnee Dust Company? Is it mistrust, to check with their own eyes what the broadcasts reported, to make sure it’s all really happening, and not doctored footage, with all that’s going on these days?

But it’s all really happening, and it’s all a mess. The teams on site have to limit damage due to falling Dust, protect civilians running and panicking under the Colosseum, and fend off the Grimm their fear is rounding. All that while praying for the Amity tower not to fall. On that last one, Clover can only count on his luck, as his fingers reflexively stroke his pin, the familiar cold metal like a calm anchor amongst the chaos.

The Ace Op leader swings the hook of is weapon, catching the tusk of an Alpha Boarbatusk and sending the creature flying. On the corner of his eye, the blade of Harbinger enters his field of view, curving into its scythe mode. Qrow cleaves the boar-like Grimm in a single strike, earning a nod from Clover. Retracting his weapon into its broadsword form, he holds it up as a shield before a handful of civilians, blocking an incoming rain of small dust shards.

“Put these scrolls away,” Qrow mutters under his breath, “no time for selfies.”

“That’s so mean,” Clover pouts jokingly, “they just wanted a pic with the dashing Huntsman who saved their lives...”

Clover cannot help but notice how the scythe-wielder gapes slightly -and entirely too adorably, he might add- before retorting, no doubt still surprised anyone would even compliment him.

“Speak for yourself, pretty boy.”

“Did you just -”

“Hey boys!” Harriet’s sneers from just above them.

She lands elastically, using the flat of Harbinger as a springboard to propel herself toward a large Griffin overhead. As she catches the Grimm in a chokehold, she winks at her teammate as if to wish him good luck. Winter Schnee simply shoots the Ace Op leader her sharpest disapproving glance before raising her weapon, producing a series of spinning glyphs in mid-air for the speedster to rebound on.

Clover clears his throat in feint embarrassment, before calling out through comms in his most professional voice:

“Ruby, can you take these civilians to safety? We’ve got a group of three adults and one teenager. Sharing our location. Do you copy?”

“On it!”

A fraction of a second later, a gust of rose petals envelops the small party Qrow was protecting, dashing away from the shadow of the collapsing Colosseum.

“Alpha, this is Jaune Arc,” Clover’s comms chirped again. “All civilians are now removed from the field and secured. Confirmed by camera footage. Ren and I are shielding them so they’ll stop attracting the Grimm.”

“Good job, both of you,” the Ace Op replies immediately. “Anyone injured?”

“Nothing critical, some sprained ankles… still working on it,” the blonde replied with the slightest twinge of frustration.

“Glad to hear, keep up the good work!”

“Thanks, sir!”

Clover grins inwardly as he can practically hear the proud smile on Jaune’s lips.

“So now it’s just us and the Grimm?” Qrow asks as he shoots a falling Lightning Dust crystal, deflecting it to collide with a small Nevermore.

“Looks like it, let’s clear out that vermin and then go home,'' the Ace Op responds as he dances his way through the swarming Grimm toward his partner.

Beside them, Vine reaches out with his Semblance, catching the Lightning Dust fragment and tossing it onto Nora with one elongated Aura arm. The redhead shatters it with one swing of Magnhild, sparks flying in the cold air. Using the recoil of her weapon, she launches herself straight toward a sizeable Ursas, only leaving a cold breeze and small shards of Dust in her wake.

Clover sees it before it can happen - yet, still too late. A civilian woman crouches down in the snow, hand outstretched toward the Dust crystals. He throws the hook of Kingfisher, snatching her away just before a pack of Ursas can trample her.

“Stay!” Marrow yells, his Semblance flaring out before any more civilians can run toward danger.  
A dozen people freeze mid-motion as the Dog Faunus stands, still like a statue, unable to move as a shadow descends upon him too quickly … Looking upward, Clover can see a large collapsing debris from the stadium in freefall toward where his youngest Ace Op, whose Aura is quickly dripping down. He knows that if he moves Marrow, the people he keeps in place will be freed, which may result in even more damage. Still, he has to try, he can only rely on his luck for the manoeuvre to work out. He caresses his lucky pin and raises Kingfisher -

A punch to the chest sends Clover tumbling on the snowy ground, the wind knocked out of his lungs. Before he has time to sit up, he finds Harbinger in its sword form inches from his face, pointed at him without intention to harm him but preventing him from springing back into action.

“Sorry, pretty,” Qrow murmurs with his usual snark, “you’ll thank me later.”

And with that, he vanishes into a flurry of feathers. Before he can track the small shape of a black bird amongst the mess of the sky crumbling over their heads, the operative already knows where Qrow is headed for. The massive piece of stadium is a mere hundred feet above Marrow, a behemoth amalgamation of torn rusty steel and shattered Dust crystals the size of a small house, tumbling down at increasing speed. As he soars past the debris, the shapeshifter morphs back to his human shape in mid-air, his pepper and salt hair windswept, the blade of his scythe outstretched.

Clover’s heart misses a beat. It all happens too fast. The jarring sound of metal ripping through metal resonates in his very bones like nails raking against a chalkboard, sending shivers down his spine as Harbinger swiftly shreds the debris. The pieces fall, missing Marrow - but not Qrow. A bright flash of light, a puff of smoke, and the impending smell of burnt Dust wafts to the Ace Ops’ nostrils. The Huntsman’s Aura shatters into a dozen red sparks, and he plummets.

He plummets down through the sky. He plummets, and Clover’s heart is beating again, so strong, so fast as he sprints straight ahead. Overhead, the translucent silhouette of a Queen Lancer flutters its wings, its prehensile dart catching the shapeshifter and slowing his fall without managing to stop it. The Ace Op leader dashes forward and drops to his knees, barely catching Qrow in his outstretched arms before he hits the ground.

“Qrow! Qrow, can you hear me? I got you. Seems to be my second job is to catch you these days, don’t you think?”

He shakes the Huntsman’s slumped form in his arms, gently then vigorously, but to no avail.

“Come on, you’ve gotta wake up. Come on, my luck can’t run out, you can’t leave me, you can’t do that...”

His voice is just a hoarse whisper, because everything is silent; everything is too loud but his mind is like a prison. The Queen Lancer above him vanishes into a sprinkle of silver snowflakes, the Grimm snarl at the raw emotion drifting off every pore of his skin, Fetch whistles past his ears, slicing at the monstrous claws, talons, and fangs surrounding him, but none of that even registers to Clover’s mind, none of that even scratches the surface. Marrow is barking at him, trying to say something while shooting his gun and waltzing a lethal waltz through the snow to cut down the circle of Grimm around them. But it doesn’t matter, because his partner lay lifeless in his arms and it can’t be and Qrow isn’t hurt no he cannot be hurt and he will come back he has to come back it’s so unfair it’s not possible -

“Awaiting your orders, sir.”

There is something rippling at the back of Clover’s mind, very, very far away in silence. He knows Marrow and Jaune are calling him through comms, but it sounds too distant. A veil of tears descends over his eyes, and he shakes his head violently because there’s nothing else he can do, he doesn’t know what to do. A flight of crimson petals drifts past his eyes, and a blink of an eye later Ruby is crouching by his side, her hands all over her fallen uncle.

“Is he injured? We have to move him out of here. Can we safely move him? He doesn’t look injured, other than minor burns from the Dust explosion…”

But Clover senses something is very wrong. His hand wraps around Qrow’s back to lift him up, and he feels something that shouldn’t be there… a part of his back that shouldn’t be detached and hanging downward like that… no no no no no… he has to move him out of harm’s way he can’t afford to look at the damage under that cape he doesn’t want to look… he can’t look now he has to be strong for Qrow for Ruby...

“I’ll take him out of the way. You and Harriet have to circle the perimeter, as fast as you can, to create a vortex that will contain any falling debris inside. Harriet, this is Clover, do you copy?”

“Yes sir!”

“Yes sir,” Ruby immediately echoes with a rushed imitation of a military salute before running off in a storm of petals.

“Schnee, prepare to catch any big fragments of Dust or debris falling from up there and slow them down so that nothing explodes. Can you do that from afar, without standing directly under the Colosseum?”

“Which Schnee?” Weiss and Winter chirp in unison.

“... Both of you. Marrow, cover me.”

“Aye, on it.”

A pallid armoured knight emerges from the ground in the middle of the stadium’s shadow, surrounded by a pack of silvery Beowolves, all rising to several feet over Clover’s head. As the canine Faunus clears the way, the older Ace Op places Qrow over his shoulder, a pang of worry clutching at his throat as he fears that might hurt the unconscious Huntsman’s back further. But he needs his other hand to fight the Grimm: he lassoes some metallic debris on the ground with his weapon and sends it flying against the herd of dark creatures on his way. He pulls back the pole of Kingfisher, thrusts at the Grimm’s eyes, slashes at their paws, hooks Marrow’s boomerang to propel it onto its lethal course, moving like an automaton along a well-rehearsed, well-oiled choreography. Because it all fails to matter and all that matters is Qrow’s faint heartbeat just against his shoulder too slow too weak too cold…

He doesn’t know exactly how they get out of there, but they do. It’s like they emerge from a long, dark tunnel, and the Amity Colosseum’s shadow doesn’t loom over their heads any more. Jaune, Ren, and Vine are around them, chattering quickly as Clover falls to his knees, carefully depositing Qrow’s limp body onto the snow. He thinks Jaune said he was off to assist the Weiss and Winter with their summons, and it’s a good thing, the boy makes a pretty good leader. The distant sound of gunshots and slashing blades echoes through the thin air; Marrow and Ren must be leading a last skirmish against the remaining Grimm. There is an eerie stillness as if a storm rises, because a storm is rising. The speedsters circling the Colosseum started a small cyclone, capturing all the falling debris into its centre, into the eye of the storm where the summoned creatures stand, ready to catch them. And they do catch most of them, Clover notes as he breathes out slowly.

The Ace Op blinks - and a loud _crack_ echoes, bringing a large chunk of the stadium crashing down with its load of explosive Dust. _No no no this can’t be happening I have to do something the summons won’t last long_ … Clover stands up, ignoring everyone around him and stepping toward the storm like a moth drawn to the light. The kids shuffle uncomfortably, but Vine stops them from intervening, understanding only his leader’s luck can limit the impending chaos when all that Dust hits the ground. The Colosseum might not be standing any more, the buildings around might be brought down, civilians may be injured… only Clover’s Semblance could make a difference at this point.

Clover stands at the brink of the storm, as if at the edge of the world. He doesn’t know how he’s still standing, like a puppet on strings, as the world all but ends right before his eyes. A high-pitched buzz rakes at his eardrums in the aftermath of the deafening explosion, amidst the sudden silence. For infinite seconds, all that’s left is the flash of bright light imprinted on his retinae. When the whiteness subsides, he’s not sure if he’s dreaming, or even dead; for among the dissolving summons he can distinguish the small shapes of Robyn Hill and her Happy Huntresses. Fiona Thyme holds her palm stretched out, basking in fading emerald Aura after the tremendous effort that must have been absorbing all of that debris into her Semblance, drastically limiting the damage and saving countless lives in the vicinity. The Faunus Huntress stumbles to her knees, supported by her teammates. Clover’s eyes meet Robyn’s dark, inscrutable glare, an unspoken gratitude, a burden eased off his shoulders like a bird taking flight. Then the Ace Op swivels around and darts back to Qrow’s side.

* * *

The transport back to Atlas is eerily silent. At the back of a truck, Clover is already writing his mission report, filling colourful boxes and charts on his Scroll. He has placed Qrow’s head on his lap, Jaune having done his best with whatever was left in him - he has to admit, the boy was a powerhouse - to restore Qrow’s Aura to decent levels. The older Huntsman still lay unconscious, and Clover has to force himself not to think about it, instead focusing on the report. The mission was just short of a complete disaster. The Colosseum had fallen apart, delaying the works to set up the Amity tower by months at least. The budget would skyrocket, and so would the hardships on the people of Mantle. With the help of Penny, some of that could have been salvaged, but the Council issued a vote of no confidence on Ironwood’s robot, essentially assigning her to house arrest, the General barely able to prevent them from having her shut down. Some civilians were wounded, and collateral damage to surrounding buildings was considerable. Without the last-minute help from the Happy Huntresses, massive casualties would have been inevitable. As much as Clover resents to admit it, his career and the fate of Atlas owed everything to Robyn Hill in this very moment.

And all that because he’s been reckless, because he panicked and let his feelings take control. If he hadn’t left the field after Qrow was injured, letting Ruby or Harriet evacuate him instead, his Semblance would have played its part, preventing the collapse of the Colosseum. Heck, if he hadn’t been so over-confident, if he’d paid more attention to the whereabouts of everyone under his command, maybe Qrow wouldn’t be hurt right now, his life hanging in the balance…

“Ever been told you work too much?” the shapeshifter mumbles in raspy tones, looking up at Clover through the incomplete mission report on his transparent Scroll screen.

“How are you feeling?” the Ace Op prompted, a mixture of surprise, relief, and worry pooling in his gut as he stares at the dark red eyes blinking open.

“You look gorgeous,” Qrow whispers breathlessly.

“You have a concussion, you’ve been hit by a Dust fragment the size of this truck. And...”

“Marrow?”

“He’s safe. Thanks to you.”

“I told you so. Hope I didn’t hurt you too bad,” the Huntsman muses, pressing his palm against the chiselled chest he had punched just before taking flight.

“Only my pride,” Clover snorts back, his heart electing an erratic pace just under the gentle pressure of Qrow’s hand.

“I had to make sure you didn’t do anything reckless.”

“I should have made sure you didn’t do anything reckless and risked your life...”

He chokes on his words as the older man suddenly sits up in his lap, pressing his forehead to his for stability and anchoring his hands around his shoulders.

“What did you expect? I’m me, reckless in my middle name. But you, you’re too perfect for that. And too innocent and cute.”

The heat, the proximity is simply intoxicating, the intensity of crimson eyes and enticing lips…

“Easy there, birdie. Must be the concussion talking… you should take it slow,” he murmurs, swallowing with some difficulty.

“I’m fine, really. Just a headache, I’ve seen much worse. You’re talking like I have some grievous injury somewhere...”

That must be Qrow’s version of ‘do I have something on my face’, and Clover just wants to kiss that smug grin off his mouth, but he first he has to tell the truth.

“Your back...” he says reluctantly, remembering the flesh hanging not the way it should when he’d touched it through the blood-red cape.

“What about it? It doesn’t hurt. It just feels a little… weird. Can you check?”

Clover suppresses a gasp as Qrow swifty springs to his feet, discarding his tattered cape and equally damaged shirt. He only catches a brief glimpse of lean, defined abs before Qrow turns his back to him - and he has to do a double take.

For on the shapeshifter’s back, instead of a mess of blood, were clean, smooth, dare he say beautiful, jet black feathers covering immediately recognisable appendages.

“Is that it? Do I still have… wings?” Qrow says shakily, trailing pale fingers across feathery surfaces he can’t quite reach.

He spins on his heels to face the Ace Op, who barely manages to produce a small, short nod. Clover only has time to see Qrow’s suddenly glassy glare fixating vaguely into the distance and the Huntsman slightly swaying on his feet, before his partner slumps into a dead faint straight into his arms in a flutter of feathers.


	2. Too close to the sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: there is one sliiiightly more explicitly smutty paragraph, that you can skip if you’re uncomfortable with that (doesn't affect overall understanding), beginning just after "as if his life depends on it". Also, mild swearing.
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)

The next time Qrow awakens, he finds himself wrapped in pristine Atlas military issued sheets. From the warmth of the bed, he sees the clean white ceiling and equally orderly room around him, only a hint of small leaves shyly peering out of flower pots against the window sill. Judging from the cleanliness and the cute plants, the quarters must unmistakably be Clover’s. 

“Ah, you’re awake,” the Ace Op’s usual enthusiastic tone echoes behind him as the younger man walks in with two steaming tea cups on a metal tray.

“Unfortunately for you, you won’t get rid of me so easily.”

“Are you feeling any better? Do you need to see any medical personnel?”

“No, I’m okay, I...”

“You don’t want them to see your wings. I understand. It looked… confidential.”

“It’s a long story,” Qrow grumbles, bringing a hot cup of tea to his lips.

“I figured your Aura broke while you were morphing, so you’d just be able to magic the wings away after your Aura recovered enough. I just told them you didn’t have any bad injuries and were just unconscious as a result of shock, so I could bring you here instead of a hospital bed where they’d see your back.”

“Way to make me look like a swooning damsel.”

“Well, you did faint straight into my arms,” the Atlesian retorts playfully, sitting down on the bed with the other teacup in his hand.

“My knight in shining armour,” the Huntsman deadpans.

“To your defense, you had a concussion. And you’re no swooning damsel, but a fearsome warrior who risked his life to save his fellow fighters.”

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere, lucky charm.”

“Then why are you blushing, little angel?” 

“Little angel, seriously? These wings don’t even feel big enough for me to fly in my human form, they’re just the right size to be annoying.”

“Just your luck, really. But you didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m blushing because this tea is hot.” 

_ And so are you _ , his eyes seem to say silently. The Huntsman doesn’t mention it, undoubtedly because it would sound too cheesy. 

The Operative leans in slightly closer, so he can blow gently onto Qrow’s cup, soft concentric ripples propagating over the swirling dark liquid. Qrow can only stare wide-eyed, Clover’s breath is fresh and nice and smells like peppermint. 

“Didn’t your mum teach you not to drink your tea while it’s too hot?” the Atlesian teases kindly.

“I grew up in a… different kind of family. One where we had to fight to survive, we didn’t have time for warnings about tea.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I mean, I’m fortunate for being born here in Atlas, and… for most things really. Fortunate is practically my middle name.”

“We’ve talked about it. I’ve seen you fight out there and you definitely have some skills, alongside your good fortune.”

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” Clover echoes jokingly. 

The older man chuckles at that, and the Ace Op has never seen him laughing in this way - so much that he spills some drops of tea onto his already tattered shirt. The Huntsman stares down at his ruined outfit, in stark contrast with the cleanliness of the bed, in clear discomfort.

“Look, pretty boy, I appreciate your… prudishness for not changing my clothes after I passed out, but something a bit more cozy than burnt battle gear would have been nice. Do you have any spare pyjamas, if that’s not asking too much?”

_ Or do you sleep shirtless like the Greek god you are? _ His eyes say what his lips don’t. 

“Uh, sure… I’ll go find some. You can get changed in the bathroom.”

The Ace Op leader quickly turns to his cupboard, crouching next to a drawer full of neatly folded Atlas Academy stash, the spear emblem emblazoned over soft, dull gray fabrics. After some fidgeting, he finds sweatpants an assorted sleeveless top that must have shrunk in the wash. 

“Here you go, I hope those will… oh.”

As he speaks, he turns around and drops the pyjamas at the sight before him. The Huntsman stands by the window, stripped of all damaged clothing save for his underwear, towering over the Ace Op’s crouching form. The cold winter sunlight highlights every curve of his body, the fine muscle definition of his torso, the crisscross of subtle scars against his toned abdomen, testimony of all the battles he fought and survived, of all the enemies that dared cross his path and perished. Clover pauses as he drinks in the sight of him, eyes drowning into the pale expanse of pearly skin, standing out against ebony wings and raven hair. Burning blood-red eyes with a hint of gold glare down at him, boring deep into him with an expression of evident desire.

“Wha...”

The Ace Op’s questions are swiftly muffled as the shapeshifter proceeds to kiss him senseless. For a fleeting instant he loses the sensation of time and space, alas too briefly. When Qrow breaks the kiss, all Clover needs is to crash their lips together again, eagerly as if his life depends on it. 

A hot mouth nibbles down the column of the operative’s neck, marking his skin like a map. He wants to bury his hands into Qrow’s hair, to touch his alabaster skin, but surprisingly strong hands pin his wrists against the cupboard. His heart pounds like a caged bird threatening to break free as a deft tongue swipes across his collarbone. The Huntsman’s stunning eyes carry a wordless question, and he only nods in consent as Qrow undoes the top button of his wrap-around uniform with his teeth - where in Remnant did he even learn  _ that _ ? - and grants his left nipple much-deserved attention. Clover moans helplessly as the older man expertly peppers the sensitive skin with kisses and bites. Somehow Qrow understands his wishes exactly, further unraveling the Ace Op’s uniform to toy with his right nipple between his swift fingers. With his newly freed hand, the Atlesian caresses down smooth wings to grab the shapeshifter’s shapely behind, that behind he’s only been admiring from afar while watching Qrow’s back during missions. Clover can feel the other man shuddering, feathers trembling, at all of him being touched, being adored, revered, wings and everything else. 

They can’t be sure who initiated it, but the next second they’re kissing again, their tongues fighting for dominance - and for all his luck, this is a battle that Clover can’t win. He struggles to breathe as the Huntsman methodically licks his lips, basking in the heat of Qrow, sinking bonelessly into his embrace like wax melting too close to the sun, too hot, too fast. 

“Please, stop...” he gasps between two kisses. 

Qrow instantly steps back, releasing his grip, and Clover finds himself sinking to his knees, only for the shapeshifter to ease him onto the bed in a sitting position.  _ Who’s the swooning damsel now _ , the operative can’t help berating himself as a shadow passes through the shapeshifter’s crimson eyes. 

“Are you okay?”

“No… I mean, yes... no I’m not hurt.”

“Too much?”

The older man sits facing him at arm’s length, nervously fidgeting with the bedsheets. The tip of his wings lower in concern as he tilts his head slightly. 

“Maybe. It’s just… I’m sorry, I wanted this, I really did, and now I’m a coward.”

“You’re not. I’m the one who’s sorry. I messed up again. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last, with my luck.”

“You don’t understand… I’m worried… I’m afraid that what we have, whatever we have, will jeopardise everything.”

“I don’t know what it’s like to you, but to me what we have is that we’re figuring things out. And as far as I’m concerned I still need more time to figure it out, and I’m okay with that. If you are, that is.”

“Qrow… when you were knocked out in the field, I lost it completely. I was so afraid I’d lose you, I panicked. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think straight. I was supposed to lead my men out of this mess, and instead I made wrong decisions and was a hindrance to my team. Because of my mistakes, the lives of my operatives, your Huntsmen, and many civilians were at risk. Without the help of Robyn’s team, I’m not even sure we’d have made it out alive.”

“Robyn’s team? The Happy Huntresses were there? Why did… sorry, I got side-tracked, it doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that you’re here, and you’re alive, and everyone made it out safely. And that’s in a very large part thanks to you, whether your sorry ass believes it or not. Can I speak honestly?”

“Aren’t you already doing it?” Clover whispers, a nervous smile playing at his lips.

Qrow’s feathers are spreading out like shadows at dusk, as if wanting to wrap around both men and protect them, to envelop them in their blissful night. But his wings are much too small for that, and the translucent tip of his quills sagely resign to fold down onto the small of his back. 

“After our first mission with your team, when your teammates talked about not really being friends, I figured out that most of you had pretty sheltered lives so far. Even Marrow, he probably didn’t come from a well-to-do Atlesian family like you and some of the others, but he hasn’t really faced any life-and-death situations in combat. Not to diminish any of your hard work to get where you are right now, the pressure from peers and family must have been even worse in that kind of environment. All of the Ace Ops also have neat Semblances and good looks - well, especially you - so you must have worked even harder just to prove you were talented and motivated. All the same, it didn’t prepare you to face hard situations in the field, no-win scenarios where your teammates are falling like flies and you still have to make it out alive and salvage what can be salvaged.”

“And you have… with your team, before you left them, I didn’t realise. And then, with the kids.”

“And when you see them hurt and unconscious, you realise they’ve been like family all along, no matter if the blood that’s bleeding out of their wounds is anything to do with yours. Because they took the hit for you, because of you, they traded your blood for theirs and they’d have your back no matter what. And thus you come to cherish every moment you spend with them even outside the field, because it won’t last, and you don’t know if any of you’ll make it out of the next battle. But for now they’re alive and safe and that’s all that matters.”

“The Ace Ops don’t have that, because we were hand-picked  _ so we didn’t have to _ . We weren’t a team back at the Academy. Those of us who showed promise were singled out and given the choice for fast tracks through the military ranks. The teams were mixed and matched by Ironwood, Pietro Polendina, and other experts based on complementary fighting styles, weapons, and Semblances. This was all done to avoid having to rely on life-or-death situations to figure out which team combinations work. Whenever possible, Atlas will avoid risking the lives of soldiers and operatives.”

“Yeah, Ironwood only brought robots to Beacon. Been there, done that.”

“Because Ironwood is a good general. He’ll put his own life on the line, but protect his troops as much as he can.”

“Jimmy’s heart may be cold and hard like stone, but at least it’s in the right place. And Atlas, your favourite, stupid Atlas needs leaders like that, leaders like  _ you _ . What you did out there today in the field, how you brought everyone back alive with nothing but minor injuries, proves you’re a good leader. You gave the right orders in hard times, you made the hard calls, you did damage control while protecting the injured and the civilians. Sure, you made mistakes, and some collateral stuff happened. I don’t know what you messed up, but for now at least I don’t give a damn. That may have been your first time, and you’re afraid right now. But you’ll continue making mistakes, and learning from them, and getting beaten and getting back up, because you may have had a wealthy and sheltered stuck up your ass upbringing, but you’re a good leader and  _ that’s what you do _ . And… I can’t believe I’m saying that, but all through that time I’ll be there for you, if you want me.”

One of his wings, as if of its own volition, caresses Clover’s bare shoulder in the gentlest of gestures, an unspoken promise. Yet, his touch carries weight, and the Operative can’t be sure he can bear it, so he softly brushes it away.

“No, you don’t understand… every time you touch me everything else just stops to matter, because… because of what I’m  _ feeling  _ for you. Because of all the… well, the figuring out, as you put it. Between us, it’s all going too fast and I’m scared. Scared that every time, it becomes a little bit harder to go to the battlefield and have to call the shots and treat you just like everyone else. Scared that the simple thought of losing you becomes a little bit less bearable each time, and that it gets more and more difficult  _ not  _ to think about it.”

“Yes, I know what it feels like. With my Semblance, everything feels like my responsibility, even if I’m not the leader and I’m not consciously sending my teammates to their own deaths. But you taught me I was more than that, and that we were more than that, and for that I’ll be forever grateful. You taught me, and I agreed, that we could try figuring that out too.”

“Figuring out things is what you and the kids do, at the cost of risking lives. This isn’t the Atlas way, this isn’t something I can afford to do. Here, every life matters, and I can’t put myself and my desires before everyone else’s lives. I can’t put my career, the Ace Ops, the Huntsmen, the fate of Atlas, and  _ your life _ at risk because I’m figuring out my feelings for you. Is it worth trying to explore how I feel, if next time a mission goes wrong I lose control again and some of us don’t make it out alive? If all I have to bring home to your nieces is your dead body, is it worth it?”

“So what? Are you gonna act all professional, focus on your goddamn career, and bottle up your little feelings like a good Atlesian soldier? Or you gonna get over your irrational fears, and are we gonna talk about it as teammates, as professionals, and adults? I may not be a team leader myself, and I know it’s a lonely place to be at times. But I’ve been in teams, as you’ve said, and my team leaders shared their burden and told me how they felt, and so can you.”

The Atlesian can see that dangerous light dancing in Qrow’s eyes, in that downcast glare that signifies his own life doesn’t matter, never has, as if it were a self-evident fact. He wants to reach out and hug that crazed feeling out of the poor shapeshifter, to smooth those ruffled dark feathers, to chase away that infuriating disrespect for human life, especially Qrow’s own. But he knows if he leans in again, drawn to this man as a moth to a flame, he won’t make it out sane, and they may not make it out alive. 

“You don’t know what it’s like. Sure, you’ve had leaders, you’ve had Ozpin, you’ve had Summer Rose. But did they have any good leadership advice to share? Were they always there for their team, are they always there for you? I can’t tell, because guess what? They’re dead.”

Clover realises what he’s said, what he’s done, as soon as the words leave his mouth. He doesn’t mean it, and he wants to take it back, would take it all back if he could. But it’s too late, Qrow’s jaw drops at the words. The older man recognises that’s his cue and shifts into a bird with visible effort, immediately flying his way out through the window. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry… *in my best Pyrrha voice while waving at you in the distance*  
> I didn’t originally mean this chapter to end in this way, it just came out like this, hopefully the next won’t end nearly as badly for the poor lovesick boys. Next (final?) update around Friday, wish me luck. Until then, stay posted, safe, and warm xx


	3. Free fall, far from the light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: extended cameo from a familiar face… haven’t tagged due to spoilers, maybe I’ll tag that character later (help me what should I do tell me in comments thanks love you xx)
> 
> A briefer chapter, and the penultimate one. Not just fighting and talking for once, ok, only a little bit of fighting, a lot of Clover being competent and thinking about Qrow and… a chase scene?

Clover isn’t wandering endlessly, he’s conducting a crucial search mission in Mantle, or so he tells himself. He isn’t running from his problems, trying to escape the ineluctable truth, attempting to distract himself from thinking about the mess he’d caused. He isn’t out thrill-seeking, craving adrenaline like some crave alcohol, to numb his aches, help him forget. Or so he tells himself. 

The truth is that the heating and ventilation system in Mantle is dark, damp, and putrid, a mess of narrow and sinewy corridors full of vermin and cobwebs like the intestines of a sleeping monster. But Clover would rather be down here than in the brightly lit, prestigious, pristine corridors of the Academy, just because he risks to bump into a certain shapeshifter there. He advances slightly crouched through the corridor hardly tall enough for a person of his stature, weapon in one hand and Scroll in the other. On the screen, blurry splodges of red and orange light up dark maps, rendering a live feed from heat cameras throughout the ventilation system, courtesy of Pietro Plendina. After the hacker took down the heating system, the now useless vents and tunnels make a perfect labyrinth for dangerous criminals to hide in. The tunnels run all over the city, so whoever is behind all of this must be taking that into an advantage to stay concealed while always remaining on the move. Pausing for a second, Clover checks his screen for any update on the position of a particularly fast-moving heat source, then presses on. 

The other truth is that Clover’s terrified. Not at the reigning darkness, not at the low breathing of the pitiless northern winds through the badly insulated tunnels, ghosting against the nape of his neck. Not even at the high-frequency whispers of some huddled homeless people, no doubt taking refuge from the hardships of Atlesian climate in the recently-downed vent system. No, what terrifies him is the weight over his shoulders, over the low moldy ceiling, the weight of dark Mantle and pale Atlas hovering above. Clover was born up there in Atlas, and he’d always thought he could handle the weight, the burden, the pressure. After all, he’d been groomed for it since the youngest age. He’d trained harder than anyone to prove he was more than a Semblance, more than a pretty face, and earn his spot near the top of the chain of command. He’d worked hard for it because he knew he could handle it, or at least he thought so, until the sky literally and figuratively shattered overhead. 

That was until a certain bird fell from the sky, straight into his hands, a bird with wings of soot and flaming embers for eyes, hot enough to melt his heart. The sky lurched overhead, the ground vacillated underfoot, and now he doesn’t know if he can handle it anymore. He doesn’t know if he can wage this war, if he can lead his men and ensure they all make it out safely, while protecting his fallen bird with his very life. He doesn’t know if he can put aside his selfish feelings, contain his passions, and be selfless, be the captain his kingdom needs and his Ace Ops deserve. 

It all started with innocent one-liners, stolen glances, subtle touches in rare moments of intimacy… But his feelings develop too fast, and he’s like a captain of a wooden ship on fire with no time to smother the flames before they burn down the boat. Every time they kiss he’s in free fall, unable to stop himself from falling even deeper for this man, inexorably, sure as gravity. On the last mission he only had his luck to thank for Robyn’s timely intervention after he left the battlefield to protect Qrow, but what will happen next time? What if he has to make a choice between saving Qrow and saving Marrow or Harriet in the next battle? He wouldn’t hesitate a single second before sacrificing himself for his little bird, but who would be left to protect his kingdom?

No, he decides, he has to keep moving on. With only his Scroll illuminating his face and immediate surroundings, he has to forget any feelings he has for anyone fighting on the field with him, and keep moving on. He has to get rid of anything that makes him vulnerable and be a hero, for his team, for the kids Qrow fought so hard to protect, for the General, Atlas and Mantle, for Remnant, even for Qrow. The silence in the dark tunnels isn’t unwelcome, only the distant dripping of foul melting snow disturbing his thoughts. Soon, he reaches a crossroad, his screen indicating the person on the run he’s following is just there on the left. He mentally reviews all the notes he’s read in Tyrian’s file, readying himself for combat, readying himself to die for Atlas if that’s what’s expected of him. But this isn’t a search and destroy mission, and he should apprehend any enemy alive to extract any information he can about the hacker. Footsteps echo, light as those of a scurrying mouse. 

“Please show yourselves. I am an Officer of Atlas,” he announces clear and loud. “I don’t mean to harm you if you cooperate.”

In the half-light of his Scroll, eyes straight ahead of him turn bright white, and a frail silhouette breaks into a run, small enough not to crouch under the low ceilings. Boots clatter in dirty puddles on the dark ground. 

“You’ve been warned,” Clover says, throwing his bolas at the fugitive’s feet. 

With a quiet clicking sound, a parasol opens, the bolas rebounding ineffectively against its lace surface. 

The Ace Op tosses a small trinket from his belt, freeing a construct of hard light bright enough to see a few feet ahead, clearly illuminating his target’s playful smirk. She’s hardly even as tall as Ruby, long hair streaked in pink and white flowing down her bare shoulders, Clover can’t recall ever seeing files about her. He swings his weapon, the hook tracing an arc bypassing the umbrella and wrapping the string around her narrow form. His strong hands give a gentle tug - only for her silhouette to shatter into a multitude of sharp fragments, blinding in the semi-obscurity. By the time the hologram disintegrates, he can hear the girl’s footsteps straight ahead in the corridor. 

Crouching while he runs through the restrictive space slows him down, and his mind mechanically searches for another solution. Ahead of him is a narrow, rusty ladder leading upward to the surface. The hook of Kingfisher catches the top of the ladder, and he activates a handle on the side of the weapon to shorten the rope and swing himself ahead, over the smaller woman’s head, cutting off her path. Reluctantly, she folds her umbrella and points it forward like a sword.

Clover thrusts at her with the pole of his weapon, in an attempt to gauge her reaction and fighting style. She easily dodges, waltzing like water over and under the fishing rod as it swings and slashes, never letting any hit connect. Letting the adrenaline curse through his mind and reflexes take over his body, the Ace Op sweeps the tip of his weapon near the floor, pretending to aim for her legs. She bounces immediately, running upward against the curved side of the tunnel, as expected. Before she realises, the hook of Kingfisher is already flying upward, latching onto her parasol. The soldier rotates a pulley to retract his fishing line and pry her weapon away, but only the umbrella part clatters to the damp ground. In her hand remains a rapier as sharp as a needle, previously sheathed in the parasol. Seizing the blade with her gloved hand for added strength, she switches her sword around to grab the shaft of his weapon with her curved handle and disarm him with a flick of her wrist. 

When she lands elastically before him, he holds the rope of Kingfisher in both hands, spinning the hook part in elegant circles. She jabs forward in quick attacks with the rapier, but each is deflected by the heavier metal hook, forcing her to retreat. Carried by the momentum of his swings, Clover spins forward past her, the fishing line moving fast enough to shield his back and sides. His next strike grazes her head, dropping her black bowler hat into the darkness. She raises her sword to block, only for the string of his weapon to wrap around it, securely dragging her in. 

A glint dances in her mismatched eyes, Clover could have sworn they just changed colour. She tilts her blade forward to let his rope slide off, kicking him swiftly in the abdomen before backflipping away. The military leader follows with a toss of the pole part of his weapon, slicing through the air like a javelin. Trying to dodge mid-acrobatics causes her to lose her balance and crash against a slimy wall. He loses no time running over to her fallen silhouette, collecting Kingfisher on the way. But the next time he brings down the weapon, it only connects with a brittle hologram. Through the silence, he hears creaking overhead and turns upward to find narrow, crooked vent she must have escaped through. 

Drawing in a deep breath to amplify his Aura, he punches through the rusty panel and pushes himself through the opening with some difficulty. As he finds himself on a decrepit rooftop, the cold night air greets him, snowflakes whipping at his face. With Ironwood’s curfew, Mantle is eerily quiet, only winds daring to howl atop the buildings. His heart beats fast, his senses are alert like a predator’s sniffing its prey, and everything else ceases to matter, like when he’s falling, but at least now he’s in  _ control _ . 

He strikes twice at white blurs around him, fast as lightning. Both shatter, holograms both. But already his sharp glare identifies her puny silhouette among shadows behind some lines of drying clothing on the rooftop, and he darts after her. Holding Kingfisher in both hands like a quarterstaff, he lunges in a series of powerful strikes. She barely parries using both her rapier and the parasol sheath she somehow recollected, one in each hand. But her deft dual-wielding cannot slow his advance, as he pushes her closer and closer to the edge of the roof, drying fabrics floating and flowing around them as they fight. When she raises her blade overhead to block a downward thrust, the sharp tip catches onto a clothing line, entangling her in a rain of tumbling sheets. She flails in an attempt to free herself, only to lose her footing and trip over the ledge. 

Silently thanking his Semblance, Clover tosses his hook downward after her freely falling form off the roof. The metal tip traces a graceful edge, nesting itself around her leather shoulder strap with surgical precision without hurting her. He shortens the rope somewhat, breaking her fall only a few feet below him, her short legs dangling over several storeys of vacuum. Dropping from that height can be lethal, and she knows it. 

“Lucky you I caught you, huh? Surrender and I’ll drag you up, and you’ll have a fair trial. All you’re culpable of so far is refusing to cooperate with a military officer.”

All he earns in return is a tilt of her head and a smirk on her lips. Before he even sees her move, the sound of metal slashing through fabric reaches his ears, and she falls once more, her outfit strap sliced in half by her sword. In mid-air, she reassembles both parts of her weapon and opens her parasol, slowing her landing onto a running tramway. 

Without hesitation, Clover jumps after her. Kingfisher’s hook catches onto a mess of interwoven electric cables, allowing him to zipline his way down and barely spring onto the back of the tramway. The empty automatic vehicle resonates hollowly under their feet as both opponents break into a run, chasing one another like cat and mouse. While low-ceiling tunnels granted the small criminal an advantage, in the open air the Ace Op’s longer strides leave her no chance. He closes the distance before she gains the opportunity to use her weapon, pinning her down to the tramway roof to pummel her with his bare fists. Each blow she evades leaves a dent on the metal surface underneath them. But her strength is no match for his, as her eyes flick between brown, grey, and pink, desperately searching for an angle to escape. Eventually, when he rears his shoulder for a final punch, she arches her body upward, locking her legs around his neck and redirecting his momentum to toss him into the roof of an overhead bridge.

Clover lives for moments like this. (Or at least he used to, before Qrow was around, and why should that change anyway, right?) Moments where time halts to a stop, where life grazes death like colliding wind streams, and he’s never felt so  _ alive _ . Everything unfolds seemingly slowly, with crystal clarity - he pushes vertically downward with Kingfisher, perfectly timed to propel himself just over the bridge. Icy breeze rushes past his face, and he feels what it’s like to fly (so this is what Qrow must feel like, in the sky with those beautiful wings… didn’t Clover do all of this just so he could stop thinking about Qrow in the first place?). He straightens his body from head to toe to reduce air friction. Above him city lights shimmer, then below as he spins in mid-air. His feet barely touch the ledge of the bridge, pouncing upward into the night. When he turns back to the tramway, he hears his enemy gasp in surprise just before he pins her down in a perfect three-point landing.

The impact sends both of them crashing clean through the roof of the vehicle into the empty tramway car. The fugitive’s Aura breaks as she hits the ground, and she blinks several seconds among the debris before she can jump back to her feet. Dim display boards outside send colourful lights flashing over their faces, and when she turns she finds him towering over her, his weapon raised and ready to strike. She grabs a nearby vertical pole in the tramway to propel herself upward, kicking him in the stomach with both boot-clad feet. While he falls backward, she runs away, jumping into the next train car and severing the connection between compartments with her weapon. 

Alone in his slowing wagon, Clover smirks. His Scroll rings, the timing’s perfect, just his luck. Drawing his communication device, he first checks that the tracking device he stuck on her boot after she kicked him just seconds ago. It looks active, sending online location details directly to military databases. However, his grin drops when he sees his partner and team Aura bars on home screen… shouldn’t Qrow have recovered more? Why is his Aura so low? Can’t he recuperate because of the wings or because of the shapeshifting or is he in trouble or is he fighting or has he gone after Tyrian in his anger and frustration oh no…

“... Ace One? Ace One? Do you copy? This is General Ironwood.”

“Yes, sir. This is Ace One. Sorry I couldn’t pick up, I was hunting down a suspect.”

“You are reporting from a location in Mantle.”

“Affirmative, sir. I was on a mission to...”

“I want you in Atlas in an hour. Meet me in the Ace Op training room.”

“... yes, sir. If I may ask, what...”

“Understood, Operative?”

“Understood, sir. Ace One signing out.”

Exhaling deeply to expunge any - most likely irrational - worries about a certain winged Huntsman, he glances upward at the floating city, silver towers glistening under the fractured moonlight. He’s hardly ever felt so grimy and soiled and far away from the sun… but at least the ground feels stable underfoot and he’s in control.

… Or is he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I had a long day today writing both chapters, this one and the final one. So yes, I can confidently tell you it all ends well now :) 
> 
> Before anyone complains about my power scaling, Neo loses 8/10 times in a straight-up fight against Clover. Neo fans can sue me and tell me she’s god-tier since undefeated, but Neo didn’t stomp against Ruby. In that fight Neo lands only one hit, and with Roman’s help, even though Ruby’s not the best in 1v1 fights against humans. Clover has a large weapon to keep Neo at bay, like Ruby (and unlike Yang who Neo stomps easily), plus a lot more physicality, fighting experience, and neat gadgets. Here Neo only manages to escape because she has good fleeing instincts and uses the environment to her advantage while Clover isn’t trying to kill her. Neo knows she would have lost against Raven in Vol 2, and Raven is stated, sans Maiden powers, which nobody knows about, to be evenly matched with Qrow, who is a little above Clover, while possibly in the same tier (hard to tell because we saw Clover fight once). Clover would stand his ground and give Qrow a good fight if they were to duel, but Qrow still wins 7/10 times thanks to more experience, shapeshifting, and fighting dirtier. All that to say I actually had a blast writing both of their fighting styles (writing Kingfisher in action actually had me worried because it looks so ridiculous), and drop me a comment if you disagree with my scaling. 
> 
> Otherwise, stay warm, hydrated, and posted - last chapter around Friday xx


	4. Can't escape orbit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mention of trauma, canon-typical violence, swearing

Those bags under Clover’s eyes won’t go away, he realises, no matter how hard he stares at them. The grime plastered over his stark white uniform doesn’t exactly help either. With a defeated sigh, he turns away from the mirror and closes the door on his way out of his room. It can’t be a good sign that the General wants to talk to him this early in the morning, at the time usually dedicated to training with the Ace Ops. Considering the recent events, he has to be prepared for the worst, and even his luck may not be able to help him. 

The Academy corridors are still quiescent at this time, only the Ace Op training facility resonating with the familiar clangs of weapons. Subconsciously, he distinguishes the whistle of Marrow’s Fetch as it slices through the air and the heavy slam of Elm’s Timber against another weapon, which does not sound as familiar…

“Good morning, Operative,” Ironwood greets, raising a white glove-clad metal hand, “Qrow kindly offered to train your team while we have this little discussion. I thought you’d like to keep an eye on their progress while we talk.”

Clover suppresses a relieved sigh; Qrow’s Aura is only dropping due to training, not a dangerous encounter and the Ace Op captain really shouldn’t worry so much. The General welcomes his Operative onto the small, dark platform overlooking the training room. James stands tall and straight, only the pallid skin around his eyes betraying his wariness.

“Good morning, General. I thought Qrow was injured... I am glad to see his recovery is going well, sir.”

Just below them, the shapeshifter is sparring against Elm and Marrow, dodging and blocking both their weapons with his broadsword alternating between successive one-handed guard positions. Clover can’t help but noticing that even outnumbered and recovering from his injuries, the Huntsman is still holding back in the fight, seemingly toying with two of the best Operatives in Atlas. 

“The medical teams have assured me that any injuries sustained in yesterday’s mission were minor,” Ironwood states, “so I will have to commend your good leadership for that.”

“I… it is always an honour, sir,” the Ace Op replies, his lips stretching into a smile that cannot contaminate his eyes. 

“Rest assured that this is the only fact, based on all the mission reports I read, that keeps me from demoting you for the mess you made out there and appoint Robyn Hill in your place.”

“But… sir… Miss Hill...” Clover can only mumble, dumbfounded. 

“I did not grant you permission to interrupt, Operative. That, and the issue that after the aftermath of your disastrous mission, the Amity Tower project was delayed by an estimated two months, and our armed forces will need all the help it can get to complete the project.”

Behind his back, Clover’s hands clasp one another firmly, enough for his fingers to go white. He distractedly watches the training session beneath them, and the red-caped Huntsman dancing out of the way as Fetch grazes his face, only for Elm to catch the weapon mid-flight in her right hand. Clover recognises the combination attack as it unfolds, such that Marrow’s yell as he activates his Semblance doesn’t surprise him. The General ever so slightly flinches as Qrow freezes in his tracks, allowing the female Ace Op to hit him in the abdomen with both her hammer and the boomerang. The blow sends the shapeshifter him tumbling against a pile of black and cyan blocks. 

“Well, Ebi?” Ironwood prompts quietly, distracting his agent from his worries on whether Qrow just got hurt again and whether the…  _ mishap  _ with his back was still ongoing - he cannot see clearly behind that cape. 

“I’m very grateful for the second chance you’re giving me, sir. It is my conviction to defend and protect Atlas, I swear I won’t disappoint you again.”

He can tell just from the way James breathes that his superior doesn’t care much for the platitutes he just uttered. Ironwood is pure military efficiency under metal and human skin, and such formalities only tend to annoy him. Clover reaches for his lucky pin mentally, wishing for something - or someone - to come and distract the General and extract him from this sticky situation. He can only thank his Semblance when an unexpected person comes to his rescue.

“My apologies, General Ironwood, Operative Ebi,” a younger voice pants, surprisingly originating from a rather breathless and dishevelled Lie Ren just running onto the platform. “I know you expected me two minutes ago… I missed my alarm this morning. Am I interrupting something?”

“Clover and I were debriefing yesterday’s Amity mission. In light of the course events have taken, I was about to tell him about our thoughts of establishing a counseling cell in Atlas, both to support both civilians and soldiers through these… traumatic situations. Our Specialists and Huntsmen could benefit from some help in the aftermath of crisis scenarios, like the one you just faced, and in preparation for any such events to come.”

And they will come, and no amount of luck can spare them in the war they set out to wage against Salem. Ren nods darkly, apparently already aware of this new development, quickly copied by the Ace Op captain. 

“Is this why you requested my presence, General?” Ren prompts calmly.

Clover isn’t sure he follows the logic, nor is he certain he cares right now as Elm pummels Qrow in hand to hand combat just before his eyes. The Huntsman, though skilled in martial arts, takes more damage than he can deal facing the broad fists of the larger Ace Op. Marrow swiftly dives in to grab the sword that Elm made Qrow drop during the Stay command. Converting the weapon into its gun form, he dual-wields Harbinger and Fetch to pepper the shapeshifter with a volley of bullets. Clover’s throat tightens as he wonders if Qrow’s wings are taking any of the momentum from the impacts - the feathers had seemed so fragile yesterday, so delicate that the iridescent quill tips appeared semi-transparent in the dull sunlight… 

“I spoke to Headmaster Goodwitch of Beacon Academy,” Ironwood answers. “She has been setting up something similar in Vale after the fall of Beacon. She will send advice, but I was thinking that you, Mr. Lie, and your… teammates could be of some help with the matter, for the meantime. If you wish so, of course.”

Prying his eyes away from the fight, Clover senses Ren briefly tensing at the mention of his team - the Ace Op can only guess it involves the young Huntsman’s redhead partner and the General’s animosity toward her opinions. She may as well be the real reason behind his tardiness judging by his level of relative disarray. 

“You and your  _ teammates  _ would be very welcome if you choose to assist in this effort _. _ ” Clover comments, semi-casually flying to Ren’s help. “After all, from what I’ve gathered, you’ve been through some experiences on your way here that make you rather qualified. What do you think?”

Pink eyes seem lost in reflection, and both military leaders know the young man needs some time to ponder. Which is just the perfect excuse for Clover to detract his attention from the meeting to how Qrow is currently faring. Not that he cares about the dashing shapeshifter, the captain tells himself, but he just wants to make sure his injuries don’t worsen because he feels a little culpable  _ as a good leader should _ . 

Some azure-lined blocks on the training grounds have been knocked to the wayside, no doubt the product of Qrow’s Semblance causing chaos and confusion. Amidst the confusion, an opening. Like a bird attracted to a shiny trinket, Qrow lunges forward and seizes his chance. His hand swings past Elm’s shoulder and toward Marrow, who easily dodges the punch but falls for the ruse. Without touching the canine Faunus, the Huntsman presses a switch up the handle of Harbinger in the younger man’s hand. The low whirring of cogs echoes through the room, transforming the weapon into its scythe form. The deploying handle sends Elm flying backwards onto a nearby pillar. While she uses her Aura roots to stabilise herself, Marrow attacks in a flurry of slashes with Fetch, forcing Qrow to extract his scythe from the rookie’s grip and parry in a series of rapid twirls.

“I agree,” Ren says evenly. “We’ll help set up a counselling cell in Atlas, and also in Mantle.”

Ironwood stiffens, if that is even  _ possible _ , at the mention of Mantle. Before he can comment, Clover intervenes: 

“My Ace Ops and I are grateful for your help, then. General, let me know if my team can help in any way, and we’ll do all we can.”

With that, the Operative grants the boy a clap on the back, meant as an encouragement after how calmly he voiced his opinions and those of his teammates to the General, of all people. Clover can’t tell if the Huntsman got the message, as Ren simply shrugs it off as if accustomed to light punches as a way of communication in everyday life.

“It seems you’re both enthusiastic,” Ironwood concedes after some time. “I’ll get the experts to think about it, and relevant files will be sent to you by lunchtime.”

“Thank you sir,” they respond in unison. 

It seems like they should be dismissed, but both Ren and Clover are too interested in watching the fight to take notice. The opponents resorted to melee combat, in lavish display of their formidable skills. The raw strength of Timber and its precisely timed swings are only matched by the intricate blocks and flourishes of Harbinger, tracing trajectories that defy retinal persistence to produce a near-impenetrable defense. The canine Faunus seems to get the short end of the stick, yet his agility and reflexes turn his smaller and more range combat-appropriate weapon into an advantage. On the defensive while waiting for the right time to strike, he dodges acrobatically and manages to slither between two swings of Qrow’s weapon into the space between the large scythe blade and his adversary. 

“Something else, Clover,” James continues, making the latter release the breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “Qrow stated in his report that your ‘non-aggressive’ policy toward Robyn Hill and her Happy Huntresses on a previous transport mission must have played an important role in her decision to help you out when the Colosseum collapsed. I don’t know what to make of it, it didn’t seem too relevant to the Amity mission as such. But I thought you should know.”

The Ace Op’s heart clenches at that, it sounds exactly like Qrow to go off on random ramblings in mission reports meant to be precise and to the point. And the positive light the ramblings shed on Clover, despite everything he’d said probably before the shapeshifter even filled in said report, does not leave him indifferent. He starts to recognise the sensations bubbling inside him, the feelings that grow increasingly familiar, that he could get used to…

“Permission to speak freely?” Ren prompts softly, at the surprise of both older men. 

“Granted.”

“Is this a position you’re taking toward Mantle? Or just a lucky accident that you got Robyn on our side by just doing her job as a Huntress, and are willing to allow counselling in Mantle because it sounds easy and convenient, while you keep on not taking sides?”

“Can you be more specific?” Ironwood’s voice is hard as ice, dripping with undertones he knows exactly what Ren means. 

“Are the military and the Ace Ops taking sides in the Atlas vs. Mantle conflict, in the Jacques Schnee vs. Robyn Hill stand-off? Because with Robyn’s current actions, that war is just starting. And not taking sides is choosing a side, the side of the oppressors over the oppressed, that of those who always come out on top.”

While the young Huntsman had always appeared calm and composed to Clover, there is an obvious indignation consuming each of his words now, a barely contained fury like a flame under a glass cup. The Operative cannot help but admire the fire-forged product of Ren’s adventures and how they shaped him, guided him in channeling his trauma and emotions. 

“Our military is impartial,” the General retorts. “The Amity tower will help Mantle just as much as Atlas, maybe even more. The people of Mantle will be grateful, especially for our protection following our Salem announcement.”

“Pardon me sir, but with the delays on the tower construction following the collapse, Mantle is going to take the brunt of the consequences. They are the ones that -”

The green-clad Huntsman has to pause at the escalating intensity of the fight just below them. Propelling himself using the handle of Harbinger, Marrow has sprung around Qrow and taken him into a chokehold. His bladed boomerang grazes the shapeshifter’s pale throat, while his female comrade lifts Timber for a rocket-propelled strike. Extending his weapon into its war scythe form for added range, Qrow raises his blade overhead to block the blow before it can gain momentum. The collision between hammer and scythe is explosive. Sparks fly at the sheer force of metal pushed against metal as both opponents try to manoeuvre the contact between polearms in their favour. Elm’s eyes narrow in focus, and Clover can tell she intends to spin her weapon around to swing upward at Qrow’s lower abdomen…

What he  _ can’t  _ tell, however, is the shapeshifter’s next move. In fact, none of the parties expect it when soot-black wings spread open on either side of Qrow’s cape, pushing Marrow off and making him lose his balance. The young Ace Op falls to one knee, shocked and sneezing as feathers fly in his face. The Huntsman only has to tilt Harbinger and step aside to redirect Elm’s rocket-propelled attack straight toward the Faunus. She tries to slow herself with her Semblance, but the force of the blow still sends her teammate airborne and tumbling onto the nearest wall. In a final riposte, Qrow swivels his weapon around to jab her in the stomach with the hilt. Ordinarily, the impact would just have made the larger warrior stumble backwards, but her deep golden roots force her body to absorb all the attack’s momentum, draining her Aura level. 

Elm drops to her knees with an undignified grunt, prompting Qrow to drop his weapon and help her up. She reflexively grabs onto his back and wings, which clearly pains him - Clover winces at that - and causes both of them to tumble onto the floor in an entangled heap. 

“Ouch,” Qrow summarizes elegantly. 

“I second that,” comes from Marrow dusting his uniform. 

“Are you okay?” Clover shouts, jumping down in the middle of the field, genuine concern obvious in his tone much to everyone’s surprise. 

“Is everyone okay?” he revises his overreaction, drawing his Scroll to check up on Aura levels. “This is a training session, not a fight to the death! What were you thinking, all of you?”

“My fault,” Qrow drawls from the floor, “you should have gotten used to it by now. I just needed to let out some steam, I lost control. But your kids kept up well, mostly.”

From the platform above them, Ironwood loudly clears his throat, no doubt cringing about how the shapeshifter managed to ruin yet another uniform, in such a short amount of time. Lie Ren looks away, faking a meditative expression. 

The Ace Op leader takes in a deep breath and retries his best not to appear stupid and - dare he not admit it - desperately in love in front of his team and the General. 

“Elm, that was nice strategy, but we’ll need to shorten the response lag of the rocket propeller kill switch on Timber. We can’t have it take that long to stop if you realise you’re hitting at an ally on the field. Can you write a note to Dr. Polendina detailing the technical issue?”

“Aye sir,” she nods while collecting herself from the ground and stifling a laugh.

“Marrow,” her superior continues imperturbable, “we should get practising your hand to hand combat some time, please try to book a session on my schedule but only after your Aura levels have replenished. But I see your melee skills improved a lot, keep up the good work!”

“Thank you sir!” 

The captain cannot help but allow a thin smile to stretch on his lips at the tail-wagging that accompanies the rookie’s response. The eldest Operative flinches however when his favourite shapeshifter silently comes to stand just behind him, his panting hot breath sending shivers down Clover’s spine. 

“Are you gonna give me a nice little pep talk too, or are you gonna answer Jimmy and the kiddo on the Mantle question first?”

The Atlesian leader looks up toward the elevated platform. Qrow who stands impossibly close immediately follows suit, arms crossed and wings outstretched behind them both. Clover pauses, not expecting to have to address the  _ Mantle question _ , as Ironwood as his superior already responded. But as the General and the newly minted Huntsman stare back down at them, it appears as if there is no turning back. 

He recalls Marrow, remembers his recruitment, his very first training sessions after he left Mantle for Atlas, how much he’d improved since then. He recalls of Nora, her rightful indignation, her unwavering fury before Atlas’s top military leaders. He recalls Robyn, her calm demeanor as she risked her life and her team in the Colosseum collapse, to save Mantle and Atlas, to fix his own mistake. He recalls the damp darkness of Mantle, armed and dangerous criminals roaming free, silent streets and moldy heating system echoing with distant whispers from the homeless, souls he couldn’t help, that may have a chance to help.

“Ren,” Clover calls out, “whether we choose to take sides or not, we’ll end up taking a side, it’s inevitable. So I may as well try my luck and pick a side. I’ll see what I can do for Robyn and Mantle, at least I owe her that. I’ll find a way, you have my word kid. I believe I can say so in the name of the Ace Ops, we’ll figure out a way.”

He turns to Elm and Marrow, the latter shooting him an approving glare. 

“Thanks, thank you all,” Ren replies, blinking rapidly. “If you’ll excuse me...”

“All matters have been covered, this meeting is adjourned,” the General speaks flatly, exiting the room shortly after Ren. 

“What manners did you even teach these kids, bird boy?” Elm teases as soon as the door closes. “Did Lie Ren just dismiss himself and leave with the General in tow? That was cool.”

“I’ll have you know I’m a professor of combat at Signal, not manners. About that, if you’ll pardon my language, can you confirm that last thing our lucky charm said? Because it damn sure sounds like  _ we’ll figure it out _ .”

“For my defense, the whole conversation was pretty much we’ll figure it out… about the counselling cells, about the Colosseum, about Robyn...”

“Seemed so,” Qrow grumbles to the Ace Op captain who cannot help but feel both amazed and ashamed at how the shapeshifter managed to single-handedly defeat two of his best soldiers while simultaneously following a conversation. “So much for the Atlesian way, huh?”

“So much for the Atlesian way.”

Times are changing, in Atlas and everywhere else. Bridges are burning, bridges are freezing and shattering, and soon there will be no way back, only forward. Forward is uncharted, terra incognita, and they must tread through by trial and error, figuring their way out as they go. There will be trials, there may be even more errors, but somehow they’ll figure it out, because they must, because there is no escape on the path they’ve chosen.

“So yes, that’s what the Captain said,” the rookie chimes in, “and thanks for that, sir… you have no idea how much it means to me, and to all the Faunus of Mantle.”

His tail balances awkwardly from side to side as he weighs his words with gratitude.

“Our boss may be born in an ivory tower, figuratively and literally, but he’s not heartless,” Elm comments boisterously. “He’s too proud to admit it, but people he worked alongside are helping opening his eyes and shaping his world view. People like you, puppy boy, bird boy.”

While Marrow swells with pride at the remark, the captain steals a glance at Qrow, carefully avoiding eye contact. 

“By the way, Professor Branwen,” says the Faunus, ”I didn’t have time to thank you for saving my life on the field yesterday. I’m sorry you got hurt.”

“No worries, kid. As you can see I’ve recovered enough to be able to kick your butt in sparring.”

“Are your wings still hurting?” Clover asks, still looking down at his feet, brows furrowed in worry.

“They’re sore, but they’ll be fine. Ozpin’s magic that endows me with my shapeshifting is rather orthogonal to Aura, so my bird form is more vulnerable, and so are my wings.”

“Couldn’t you use your shapeshifting to remove them by now?”

“Turns out they were pretty useful. Without them Elm and Marrow would have had me on that one.”

“I think I’m allergic to birds...” the dog Faunus bemoans, earning a loud chortle from his female teammate.

“What happened to not letting my not-even-real injuries distract you from being all professional and a good leader?” Qrow murmurs to the Atlesian captain.

“Well, lying to myself about not caring failed rather miserably, I think everyone noticed.”

“And here I thought that keeping my hands off you would help you keep your head straight and focus on that stupidly brilliant career of yours.”

“It’s so much more than that, Qrow...”

And it is, in ways words cannot barely start to express. Ways that all converge to one point, pulling him in slowly, and all he can do is choose to fall… But the ways of fortune and misfortune have their own inscrutable, intricately entangled ways, and it seems to be just Clover’s luck when a lone wing happens to find its way around the side of his shoulder, all but pulling him in for a hug. The ways of misfortune and fortune have no escape, and there’s nowhere else they’d rather be, nowhere else on Remnant they could possibly be but right here, right now in each other’s wings and arms.

“So you can keep your hands to yourself, but your wings just do as they please?” Clover snorts softly, basking in the warmth of Qrow’s feathers. 

“Something like that, those sneaky bastards. Like Marrow’s tail which is  _ not at all _ wagging right now.”

“Seems like your wings rather like me… lucky me, I guess.”

“Lucky you, indeed.”

“Qrow… I’m sorry for what I said yesterday.”

“You didn’t mean it, I get it, cut the sappy stuff will ya? You just needed to let out some steam. At least you didn’t take it out on your team by handing their butts to them, like I did.”

“Is that a challenge? I’ll have you know I was on a mission yesterday night, and tracked down a dangerous criminal through the Mantle vent system.”

“Is that why your uniform’s so slimy and gross?”

Clover looks down, blushing in embarrassment, but when he tries to extract himself from the hug Qrow’s hands pull at his waist gently, drawing him back into his gravity, _ where he belongs _ . They still have some figuring out to do, they’ll always do, but not right now, right now everything feels right, falling into place. 

“Don’t you worry,” the Huntsman whispers, “even when you’re dirty I love you anyway.”

“I love you too.” 

Somewhere far, too far away, resounds a loud “I told you so!” from Elm, followed by the metallic tone of some Lien Marrow tosses at her for winning their bet.

“This time I hope you mean it, lucky charm. Because those betting kids over there and I will personally fight you if not.”

“I mean, even when I’m away from you I can’t stop myself from thinking about you, from worrying about you to the utmost irrational point. It’s one more of these things that are simply inescapable. So I’d rather worry and be near you, right here with you, where you can figure things out with me, and help make me a better leader and a better person. If that’s okay with you, of course.”

One of the taller man’s strong arms snakes around Qrow’s shoulders, a finger tracing the tip of his wing, along the sturdy joint between bones and the softness of the feathers. He can feel feels Qrow’s muscles throbbing with pleasure at his touch. 

“Of course, luck charm. Always.”

Clover leans in to drop a chaste kiss at the corner of Qrow’s lips, eliciting one of those rare, priceless smiles to ever grace the shapeshifter’s face. Scrolls are buzzing away in the distance, no doubt in reaction to the Ace Ops sharing the results of more bets with the rest of their team. 

“You know why I kept the wings?” the Huntsman continues in hushed tones, his words like music pouring into Clover’s ears only, “because you can’t believe how much it turns me on when you touch them.”

At that the captain struggles to stifle a laugh, burying his face into Qrow’s feathery shoulder and away from Elm and Marrow’s eyes. Good thing Clover’s not allergic to birds - just his luck, really. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this was so hard to write, so many characters speaking and moving to keep track of. It was pretty anticlimactic, as it was meant to be… hope it works and you enjoyed. If you did, there’s a fat chance you’ll like my other fic, Totally Unfair, featuring Qrow and Clover being angsty and competent and throwing compliments at one another, so check that out. I wrote another short thing in the aftermath of V7E8 about the boys (and bumbleby!) huddled for warmth in Mantle after the heating system broke down, sounds fun right? I still need to edit it so it will be up tomorrow before the new episode comes out (for premium folks, anyway…). I am so tired right now, so until then stay warm, safe, and posted xx
> 
> PS: shout-out time! If you’re into bird boys and their boyfriends, there’s a phenomenal (angsty and smutty) comic I’m reading based around that trope, it’s called Avialae and is free to read on Tapastic and partly inspired this fic. Go check it out!

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of likely three chapters, not sure as only the second one is written. Next chapter probably around Monday, if all goes well.  
> Stay posted, warm (and don’t get up too quickly or strip off your clothes if you’re hurt and it's cold, don’t be like Qrow, he can only blame himself for passing out), and safe xx


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